


The Sharpest Lives

by My_Black_Crimson_Rose6



Series: The Ghost Of You [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (Well Light for me anyways), Canon Compliant, Light Angst, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks "Last Words"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6/pseuds/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were already who they were today before fate decided to fuck them over with a soulmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharpest Lives

All his life his skin never saw hide or hair of one of those soul brands. It pissed him off as a kid when people would show theirs off and constantly ask him about his. And always, _always_ , Felix would tell them to fuck off with that shit—he had a very colourful vocabulary as a child.

It would drive his parents, teachers and principals up the wall.

He wasn’t about to change for them, wasn’t about to change for some mark either—some mark that he didn’t get. He didn’t get any marking when he joined the army, where he met his partner in crime—a quiet man, a _soldier_ type.

They worked together, they worked _well_ together—got shit done, did that shit without (much) hesitation. He could live like this; with a gun in his hand and a knife in the other.

He could live the rest of his life as a mercenary, a killer for hire—he liked the killing, the preying on the lives that he had fought to _protect_. He could live out the rest of his life with Locus by his side and his skin naked of markings.

Locus didn’t have any either—poor, poor bastard.

He could live out the rest of his life fucking over one planet after the other, having the people killing off each other. He could’ve lived like that—he was doing so _fucking_ fantastic until that one _fucking_ morning.

**I’ll see you in Hell.**

His hands shook, they shook more than when he killed a man for the first time. They shook as he traced the large dark words over his throat. “I’ll see you in hell,” he whispered to himself fist clenching at his side. He knew that these would be the last thing his _soulmate_ would ever say to him.

It was fitting.

It was fucking _fitting_ as he slammed his fist into the mirror and the shards rained down. Of course his fucking soulmate would hate him—would Felix kill him? Fucking hope so if that’s the last thing the prick ever says to him.

**I’ll see you in Hell.**

He couldn’t let go of his throat that whole day, even with his Kevlar suit covering the words burned into his skin. They kept flashing in his head, burned to his eyeballs.

_It was so **fucking** fitting._

\--

Locus didn’t always have that name. The name that he used to go by burned long, long ago. Burned along with his sense of duty and honor. It burned when he allowed himself to be bought by money and greed.

The war was over; he could go home—go settle down on his home planet and tell his aunt that he made it home. He could go home and pretend that the lives that he ended didn’t exist.

He could mould back into the man that he could’ve become, he could’ve put the blinders back over his eyes and went on like he was just another damn man on that _fucking_ planet. He could’ve, he could’ve done a lot of things.

He could’ve not stood in front of the mirror as a teen and picture where his soul brand would be if he had one. He could’ve not joined the reserves and later the army when the war broke out. He could’ve not thrown his dog tags and name away and started becoming _Locus_.

He could’ve done a lot of things but he didn’t.

He fell in a step behind Felix, covering that damn man’s six while he talked and _talked_. He trained his skills; he was always an excellent shot, was always strong and thought critically. He honed those skills, he became the perfect soldier—the perfect machine.

He took each job without hesitation, not since he trained that out of himself. He fell into a routine of pulling the trigger. He fell into a routine of killing and moving on without a blink on the wasted life (the wasted potential of it).

He heard all about the Freelancer project, hacked computers after computers to fill in the blanks on the destruction left in those soldiers’ wake. He’s seen the affect of them; saw the potential of specialized soldiers.

He saw the suits, the men and women under them, the mission logs and the fall.

He saw it all and _wanted_ it.

He could’ve... he could’ve...

The Freelancer project fell and suddenly bodies were showing up in the files; more and more with each passing day—with each year. Until only one remained; until only the youngest of the Freelancers were left and the name forever burned in his brain.

Washington, Agent Washington.

They took the job on Chorus shortly after the light flashed on his file.

Locus could’ve... he could’ve...

There were rumors shortly after, rumors of two surviving Freelancers working with SIM troops. The Reds and Blues. Locus didn’t want to hope but he did so anyways; he searched through every database he could—hacking into one system after the other until he found his information as the sun was rising.

Agent Washington and Agent Carolina.

He could’ve laughed at that name—could’ve kissed the monitor and slam his helmet to the ground and screamed in victory. He could’ve, he just knew better than to do so.

Three days later his mark showed up, burning from his waist to his armpit. It burned into his lungs, carving itself into his ribs and muscles. It burned to the point of tears as he tore himself out of his armor and Kevlar suit, it burned as he stared (and stared and stared).

**You're not a soldier Locus; you don't have the heart for it**

Soldier. Locus. You don’t have the heart for it.

He pulled the Kevlar suit back over tender skin, fists clenched in his hair as he counted his breaths.

_One. Two. Three. Four._

Locus was a _soldier_. He was a soldier! His soulmate knew _nothing_ about being a soldier; they knew _nothing_!

_Five. Six. Seven. Eight._

Locus was a soldier; he trained himself for this very job, the very _lifestyle_ for years. He was a soldier and he’d always be one.

_Nine... Ten..._


End file.
